In all truthfulness, Sir Mixalot likes big butts (you’ll recall that he cannot lie—not about that, anyway) and Trace Atkins hates to see a woman with a “honky tonk badonkadonk” go but he nonetheless loves to watch her leave. There was much butt glorification on last night’s AMA’s (see: JLo and Iggy Azalea singing the future classic, Booty).

I’m just wondering, what if, like me, you have an unremarkable butt but a pot belly worthy of an entire chapter in an anatomy text, dappled like expensive luggage with stretch marks due to the remarkable feat of having carried twins? Let’s say you have nice legs–long and thin relative to your belly–but not much of a waist to accentuate your already fairly flat, “white lady” booty. (That’s an inaccurate term, I think, because I have white lady friends with rather majestic rear ends.) If you read the women’s magazines, which I, of course, do (when I’m not writing stories about butts for them), you know you’re likely either “apple” shaped or “pear” shaped. I’m an apple, otherwise known as an egg-on-a-stick. That is, when I’m heavy—my middle is where all the weight tends to go, rather than to my ass, and so doubling as convenient, portable seat cushioning.

Where are all the hit songs about my body type? Am I, or my fellow eggs-on-sticks any less worthy of love and song lyrics? Yes, for optimum “objective” attractiveness, you’ll be wanting your waist to be 70 percent of your hips (booty inclusive) and blah blah blah. I’m closer to 1:1, 2:1 after a large Thanksgiving meal. But what if the insubstantial butt I do have has a really good personality? And what if there are secret legions of “belly men,” guys who just love a big, squishy tummy you can practically disappear into, who are too afraid to speak out for fear of being mocked by the ass and hooters guys?

I mean, right? And if I’m not right, I’d prefer not to know, so don’t tell me.

Thanks to John, who is working on a song right now, for reminding me that I have a blog and I should write on it.

StephanieDolgoff

1 Comment

I write to you as a now-invisible 57 year old–meaning, no one (other than my sweet husband) pays my aging body any mind. I don’t feel asexual, but I am viewed thus. In many ways, this is a relief. As a young teen, boys nicknamed me “jello-butt,” which at the time was utterly humiliating in the days way, wayyyy before “junk in the trunk” and “wants some fries with that shake” comments. Why couldn’t I have Farrah’s tight little fanny? No matter I had bigger boobs or legs way longer than hers. My father told me I had “the Post fanny,” meaning his mother’s side of the family’s wide posterior. His affectionate ribbing included saying “Hey, Crisco!” meaning “fat in the can” as I was a developing adolescent. My mother, who had a pear shape, recounted stories of her nursing residency in Montreal and dressmakers there in the 40s telling her “Oooo, the leeetle waist! But the heeeps, the heeeps!” when they fitted her for clothes. I learned early that I was (a) doomed to have a big ass and (b) would forever have to bear criticism for it. Forgive me if I laugh now with delight at Kim K.’s “crispy creme donut-like” greased up naked butt cheeks. Allow me to feel somewhat vindicated that booty is now–for whatever crazy reason–in style. God love the ex-con I lived with at Dismas House years ago who, when I was rooting around in the house’s fridge, said “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm…wide-end Pontiac!” with what I took as admiration. Despite invisibility, I can look in the mirror now, see the basset hound eye bags, my droopy boobs, the bat-wing arms, and love this body that’s taken me this far. I’m more than the sum of my parts. And I’m learning, after all these years, to love my feckin’ arse!